(Random) 13. Your muse pushes my muse to their knees.
(au where their tablet chat never happened and he didn’t know what she looked like polyjuiced)
Amy ran through the halls of the building they’d been keeping the prisoners in, so turned around that she couldn’t remember which way was the closest exit. She’d known as soon as the lights flickered and the screams started that the Rebels had arrived. She was in the camera room with one other guard at the time, and once he’d turned towards the noise and away from her, she took one of her throwing knives and slit his throat. She didn’t let herself think about it.
Now she was running, not to escape, but to get to the others to help them. She heard a brawl down the hall from where she was, so she inched forward slowly towards the corner. It stopped quickly with the unfortunately familiar sound of someone being gutted, and Amy stopped moving. The victim groaned their last while the footsteps of the victor started towards her part of the hall.
She was ready, sword raised in front of her, muscles tensed for attack–when Arthur rounded the corner.
She let out a sigh of relief and lowered her blade. “Bloody hell, am I glad to see you, brother,” she said, lowering her sword as she walked towards him, but stopped short when he held his knife up to her. She’d forgotten that she still didn’t look like herself yet.
“Who are you?” he said, somewhat disgusted. “What could possibly make you think you have the right to call me ‘brother’?”
“Arthur, it’s me. Amy!” she said hurriedly as he came closer.
“No, I don’t think so,” Arthur rebutted. “Anyone could say that. Their covers were blown.”
“They were?” That was news to her, so it must’ve just happened in the past few hours. Saving that thought for later, she focused back on the situation at hand. Amy started to back away towards the wall behind her. “Arthur, please. You have to believe me.”
“I don’t have to believe anything you say!” he yelled, lunging at her.
“Don’t-” she started, dropping her sword quick enough to catch his blade in her hands and wrap her fingers around it. She struggled to take the knife from him, but only succeeded in getting her hands cut severely. Crying out, she fell to the floor face first when he elbowed her in the forehead.
Arthur pulled her up by her hair and onto her knees, holding the knife to her throat from behind. She grabbed the blade again, yelling against the pain. No matter how much it hurt or how many fingers she might lose, she couldn’t let Arthur kill her. Once he found out she’d been telling the truth, he’d never forgive himself.
Suddenly he let out a grunt and fell to the ground behind her. She turned around quick to see that Dean had cold-cocked him with the handle of his gun. Amy looked between him and Arthur, trying to catch her breath.
“He’ll be okay, we’ll come back for him,” he said quickly. “C’mon, we gotta move.”
She hurried to her feet, apologizing to Arthur’s unconscious form before running after Dean.
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